


Be Our Guest

by CommaSplice



Series: Haunted Westeros [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, F/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 20:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2441603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommaSplice/pseuds/CommaSplice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crownlands Paranormal Investigations is hired by Robb and Margaery Tyrell Stark to look into supernatural happenings that have occurred at The Crossing, a historic hotel and spa that they run in the Riverlands--a place that just happens to be the site of The Red Wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Our Guest

* * *

_To:_ stannis.baratheon@gmail.com   
From: dseaworth@cpi.com  
Subject: Re: Discontinuation of your services

_Dear Mr. Baratheon:_

_While we are sorry to lose your business, we understand. There are no expenses to remit. We had just started the dialogue with your daughter and were unaware she didn’t have your consent. Please let us know if the situation changes._

_Regards,  
Davos_

* * *

If Davos Seaworth was not as attuned to the spirit world as Melisandre was, she had to concede he was very good with the more practical side of Crownlands Paranormal Investigations. As he had a tendency to worry about the details more than was necessary, Melisandre was not ordinarily concerned when he fretted about their finances. Now, though, as he put the figures before her, she was troubled.

“It does not matter what the email from Stannis Baratheon said,” she told him. “We will be going to Dragonstone.” This, Melisandre was certain of. She had seen it. 

Davos rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. Let’s assume that happens.”

“It will.”

He took the pile of papers and using his left hand, totted up the figures on the calculator. Then he scrawled an appallingly large number on a fresh sheet of paper. “This is what we’ll owe by 31st.” Then he wrote down another number. “And if the Dragonstone case comes through, this is the most we’ll earn. And mind you, that assumes we are paid right away and reimbursed for our travel expenses immediately.”

Melisandre had never been good with arithmetic, but even she could see the difference. “What about the elementary school?” She shuddered. It had been one of their more challenging cases. Even now, she kept seeing . . . the teeth. But Biter had been dealt with. She had seen to that. “And we will be going to this hotel.”

“It’s not enough. We need steady, regular work. We can probably eke out another few months if we let Sam and Asha go.”

She was certain Dragonstone would happen, but she had no sense that other business was in the offing.

Davos tapped the monitor and pointed to their website with its assurance of absolute discretion. “This is what is killing us.”

“Discretion is what the clients value,” she said, puzzled.

“Aye,” Davos agreed. “But it means there’s not enough word-of-mouth business. We need more publicity. Three months ago I would have said we should advertise, but we can’t afford to do that now.”

Melisandre thought. There had to be other ways of garnering publicity,

* * *

Robb rapped lightly on the office door. “Margaery?”

“Hi, lover. Come in. I’m just responding to the comments on TripAdvisor.”

“Should we . . . I mean, if they’re bad reviews?”

“We respond to all the reviews, good, bad, or indifferent, Robb. Especially if they’re bad. It shows that we are responsive, concerned hoteliers.” She reached up, twining her slender arm around his neck to guide his cheek down to hers, and she kissed him absently.

Robb noticed she was wearing the blue button-down blouse again. It was the one with that was slightly too tight. Today three of the top buttons were undone and she had the shirt tails tied around her waist. The vine green scarf carefully knotted around her creamy throat only drew the eye down deeper. It was coupled with the skirt with the slit in the back. “Shit, another tradesman?”

“Three,” Margaery murmured. “Don’t worry. I’ve yet to have to put out. Oh, speaking of bills we can’t pay. I need you to change. You have to stop by the florists and the dry cleaners for me. I set out the jeans and the shirt. Two buttons undone, okay? Let them see your chest hair. And lean over a lot at the dry cleaners.”

“Sweetling,” Robb began.

“What?”

He hated this. The florist wasn’t so bad. She was a nice girl who giggled a lot and liked to flirt— _just_ to flirt. Bolton’s Dry Cleaners was another story. Besides this felt cheap, like they were basically prostituting themselves to get out of bills they legitimately owed. 

“Robb, I would do it myself if I thought they swung that way. It’s that or we have to start driving a hundred miles to find another place dumb enough to extend us credit.” When he didn’t move, she looked at him. “What’s wrong?”

He took a deep breath. “It’s Jeyne. Margaery, I don’t know how to say this right, so I’m just going to come out with it. I’m in love with her.” There it was out. 

Margaery arched an eyebrow and went back to TripAdvisor.

“I don’t like hurting you, honey. You have to know that, but—”

“She’s got great tits,” Margaery commented. “And those lips of hers are made to be kissed. I’m happy you’re happy fucking Jeyne, but we have a business to run. The dry cleaners first and then the florist. If we have to, we can use flowers from the garden and start telling people we’re interested in keeping our footprint as green as possible. It makes no sense, but they won’t question it.”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

Margaery sighed and turned to face him. “How is this different from Talisa or Roslin? You like to fall in love and that’s great, but you made a vow to _me_. You swore to stay with _me_ in sickness and health, for better and for worse. And _we_ made a commitment to make a success out of this business. I don’t mind if you have affairs. I told you that on our honeymoon, remember?”

“But . . .” Robb had never been able to think clearly around Margaery. He’d come into the room with the full knowledge that what he was about to say was right and good and in two minutes, she’d have it turned around. And it was true. He _had_ promised all those things to her.

“Why don’t you bring her around after we finish with the supper crowd and we’ll have some fun? I wouldn’t mind having that mouth of hers on my cunt.”

“Jeyne isn’t . . . she won’t . . . she’s not like you, Margaery.” But maybe she was? And maybe Jeyne would enjoy being with the two of them? Robb felt his face flushing at the thought. 

Margaery laughed. “Nobody’s like me, sweetling. Now run along. The paranormal investigators are coming tomorrow and I want to make sure everything is all set for them.”

He groaned. This was another expense. The bills never stopped and this company had demanded a deposit up front. Now they were going to have to put them up for free as well _and_ risk the paying guests learning about the ghosts. It went against the grain. “Can’t we just stay quiet about it?”

“Robb, it’s like the bad reviews. If we want to be a successful business, we need to address our problems, squarely and up front. Now go and don’t forget to bring Jeyne by tonight. It’s been way too long since we both had some fun.”

* * *

_To:_ dseaworth@cpi.com   
From: stannis.baratheon@gmail.com   
Subject: Re: Re: Discontinuation of your services

_Dear Mr. Seaworth,_

_I may have been premature in dismissing your company._

_I see from your website that the first consultation is free for clients in King’s Landing. What would it cost were you and your company to come to Dragonstone for this? Please forward estimates for travel as well._

_Sincerely,  
Stannis Baratheon_

* * *

It was too bad that Dragonstone was nowhere near the Riverlands. Davos was not a crook, not anymore anyhow, and he really wanted to keep CPI above board, but they needed cash. He ran figures and began drafting a proposal with a fee that was above what they would normally charge.

Melisandre’s visions were all well and good, but you couldn’t go to your creditors saying your business partner had seen new clients in the flames.

Still, they could manage another month if this new client was willing to pay. 

Behind him, Asha was engrossed in something on the computer. She had a knack for looking like she wasn’t working, but Davos knew from past experience that if he investigated, whatever she had found would turn out to be pertinent to the case so he left it alone. 

He was debating whether another cup of coffee would make him feel better or worse when he heard the ping informing him there was a new message.  


* * *

_To:_ dseaworth@cpi.com   
From: stannis.baratheon@gmail.com   
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Discontinuation of your services

_Dear Mr. Seaworth:_

_The problem seems to have abated. As such, I will no longer have need for your company’s services. Please remit any expenditures you may have incurred (e.g. travel arrangements) and I will send you appropriate compensation._

_Please accept my regrets for any difficulties this may cause._

_Regards,_

_Stannis Baratheon_

* * *

Davos felt Asha reading over his shoulder. He was glad of the distraction because this was not good news. He swallowed his anger. It was one thing if this Stannis Baratheon chose not to employ them, but with every email, Davos’ hopes rose or fell. He wished this man would decide already.

“Good. I hate boats. I really hate them. What else do we have lined up?”

“I copied you on the emails,” he told her mildly, but Asha didn’t move. Instead she reached over him and manipulated the mouse.

“Someone’s been watching _The Shining_ again.” She sat back in her chair and stretched her jeans-clad legs out on the conference table. 

“We haven’t finished paying for that table.”

Asha rolled her eyes and leaned back further. 

Davos learned a long time ago that there are some battles not worth fighting. 

“There’s something off about this hotel case.” He had read through the correspondence, which had been very vague, and through Sam’s notes on the intake. “The clients don’t seem . . . right.”

“Davos, they’re coming to us. Half of them are crazy. The other half need their hearing and vision checked.”

“Cersei Lannister’s vengeful spirit didn’t convince you?” 

She waved a hand vaguely at him. “One legitimate case. Big deal.”

“And Biter?”

“Okay, that was fucking weird, but you know as well as I do that those cases aren’t the norm.”

Davos reread the notes, trying to pinpoint the cause of his unease. The Crossing was a relic of the past, a massive resort hotel for a region that had once been wildly popular with the rich and famous of the last century. He read the brochure the clients had included in the snail mail packet of information and then decided to see what the Internet had to say about The Crossing.

Asha’s eyes were closed. “I already looked. It used to be called The Twins. Grand hotel, fishing, swimming, croquet, golf, tennis, a theatre, fancy ladies in long white dresses and picture hats, men in crisp white flannels, fucking high tea on the fucking terrace with the fucking peacocks, blah blah blah.”

For a woman who claimed there was no such thing as the paranormal, Davos often found her prescience spooky as well as irritating.

“The Depression hit. Then gradual decline, the peacocks get mange or something stupid, people stop drinking high tea and start going to McDonalds. Then about fifty years later, they start marketing the place to middle-class professionals and booking comedians and magicians. No reports of anything happening in the heyday or back then either. Then decline again, but not so gradual. Place changes hands three times. Things pick up for about two point five seconds when _Dirty Dancing_ comes out, but it’s not enough. They sell off parts of the property over and over until all that’s left is a fraction of the original footprint and what’s left is falling apart.”

It was still fairly big. Sam had unearthed blueprints and the sheer size of the old hotel was staggering. There were extensive grounds too. 

“Cut to about five years ago when your hosts, Robb and Margaery, buy the property intent on restoring ‘an architectural gem in an authentic period setting’ to its former glory—” Asha made gagging noises. “Did you see their picture on the web site? I was practically blinded by their perfect fucking teeth. I bet he spends whatever profits they make on his hair.”

“Asha,” Davos began. He wondered if her sudden animosity toward Robb Stark and his curly auburn hair had something to do with Qarl. There had been a breakup and Asha seemed to be taking it none too well.

“Yeah, yeah, they’re our clients and deserve our respect, blah blah blah.” Asha had not opened her eyes once. “They rename the place and work their preppy, but plucky fingers to the bone trying to make a go of it at The Crossing ‘suitable for weddings, anniversaries, corporate retreats, and every occasion’ when things start going bump in the night.” She yawned. “I know I’m just a lowly employee, but I would get a large deposit from them in advance in the form of a certified check, because your hosts, Robb and Margaery, totally look like the type to go belly up and leave you hanging with a regretful smile and the hopes that we will understand why they can’t pay us.”

Was that why this case felt odd? If so, he was on top of it. 

“Already handled.” Davos was no one’s fool when it came to the dragons and stars end of the business. He rifled through the packet they’d sent. Attached on the top of the paper-clipped contents was a handwritten note on thick, cream-colored stationery. The Crossing’s name and address was elegantly embossed on the center. In the note, Robb and Margaery wrote that they hoped Crownlands Paranormal Investigations would find the photographs and newspaper clippings helpful. They particularly wanted to draw their attention to the two stories from _The Riverlands Reporter_. Perhaps these might explain just why they were experiencing these disturbances. And lastly, they wrote how much they were looking forward to hosting Crownlands Paranormal Investigations. 

It was a friendly, concerned, perfectly appropriate note—and it felt entirely wrong to Davos.

* * *

Melisandre listened patiently as Lancel told her over the phone how much he already missed her. She decided she would ignore the smirk on Davos’ face and that it did not matter that Asha was surely insulting her even as she drove with Sam in the minivan ahead of them.

As lovers went, Lancel had risen to the challenge nicely. He was considerate and enthusiastic, but unfortunately, he was far less interesting out of bed than he was in it. And in between their bouts of passion, he had a tendency to talk about his ex-girlfriend far too often. 

“I don’t know who this guy is that she’s seeing,” Lancel complained. “She’s being so secretive about it. It’s not like Sansa.”

Melisandre was about to point out again that the subject did not interest her, when Davos cleared his throat. 

“We have arrived at our destination, my love” she said instead. “We will speak later tonight.” When she was in bed and naked between luxurious Myrish sheets of an acceptably high thread count, oh, yes, then they would speak. 

At first glance, The Crossing was a stunning structure. It was only as one grew closer that one saw the deterioration. Still, they had put down a sizable advance up front and she had a duty, a mission really, to help the spirits move on. 

The two clients were there to greet them on the veranda. The man was extremely handsome with beautiful hair and teeth. Melisandre wondered briefly in a purely academic way, what he looked like out of his clothes. 

Within seconds, it was apparent that it was his wife Margaery who was in charge. As introductions were performed, Melisandre sensed with amusement her casual interest in her. And then Margaery was introduced to Asha. Melisandre was annoyed when Margaery’s reaction to Asha was decidedly less casual. Not that Melisandre cared. She preferred men. But still.

Sam was visibly aflutter when Margaery warmly placed her hand on his arm and told him how glad they both were to have such an expert as Dr. Samwell Tarly on the case. When she told him that she had read one of his papers, he nearly hyperventilated. 

Melisandre reminded herself she was here for the spirits. It did not matter that she thought this Margaery to be a shallow, vain creature.

Asha had her most skeptical face on. “I feel like I should make sure I still have my wallet,” she muttered to Sam as they all walked inside the lobby. 

“Asha,” Davos warned. 

Melisandre reached out with her mind and felt . . . nothing. She frowned and still felt . . . nothing. She told herself this wasn’t surprising. The Crossing was a large building and quite often spirits confined themselves or were confined to specific spots. It was entirely possible the news and incidents were also related to something like defective plumbing or noisy pipes. There was no cause for concern.

“We’ve put you in the wing where . . . where there have been experiences,” Margaery told them.

Several of the other guests looked around at that. 

“You were very vague on the phone,” Sam managed. “If you could tell us about the manifestations themselves and whatever other incidents you’ve had, that would be very helpful.”

Davos was frowning. “We can talk over all of that somewhere more private if you like,” he offered.

“Of course.” Margaery collected herself and called out to her husband, “Robb, honey, I’ve got them in 310, 311, 312, and 313. Melisandre, I know you’ll like 310. It has a view of the river.”

“We’re not here for the view,” Davos said gently. 

Margaery went on as if he hadn’t spoken. She wanted Asha in 311 and Davos in 312. “Dr. Tarly, I think you’re going to love 313.”

Sam’s face blanched. “I’d really have one of the other rooms.”

“He’s afraid of the number thirteen,” Asha explained with an unnecessary eye roll. 

“Honey, I thought we were putting Davos in 313.”

“It’s not that I’m afraid exactly—”

A look of understanding bloomed on Margaery’s face as told him with a very sympathetic voice that she completely understood. She, herself, had a fear of the number 666, but that he needn’t worry. “When we bought The Crossing we renumbered all the rooms up here. Your room was originally 312. Will that be all right?”

Melisandre did her best to stay serene. She was here for her expertise, not to worry about Sam’s absurd fears or Asha’s insolence or this silly client who didn’t understand that _she_ was the essential partner in Crownlands Paranormal Investigations. As they walked to the old-fashioned elevator and then down to the wing in question, she continued to reach out and continued to feel . . . nothing.

* * *

As they sat in the hotel’s dining room, eating their organic baby greens with oven-roasted beets and house-cured aged bacon over which truffle oil had been lovingly drizzled, Asha was beginning to get just why Davos thought this case was so hinky. The clients were off, but not in the normal sense of the word. She’d met some nuts in her time on this job, but these people were not crazy or unhinged or even befuddled; they were shifty. They were shifty in a way she hadn’t seen since she'd left Pyke. They weren’t grifters, not exactly. In addition to her Googling, she had taken the liberty of contacting Lancel. Margaery Tyrell Stark and her husband of the great hair and perfect teeth, Robb, were exactly who they said they were. But their behavior had bordered on the bizarre since the moment they’d set foot on the grounds.

For a start, almost all of their clients, with the exception of the totally insane ones, were hipped on discretion and privacy. No one wanted anyone else to know that their house was haunted. Even the ones who truly believed tended to be so worried about resale value that they usually demanded confidentiality in writing. 

But here was a couple running a hotel, a place that had to be a money pit. There was an air of desperation around the clients which suggested that they were not in good financial health. Asha had taken a wrong turn when she went in search of an ice machine, only to witness Margaery practically flashing her tits at some plumber and doing everything but going down in order to get him to do some work without immediate payment. Margaery was obviously oversexed (Asha had the feeling she could have gotten laid right then and there in the lobby if she’d expressed willingness), but even a nympho wouldn’t be interested in an overweight plumber with a comb-over, dubious hygiene, and visible ass crack. The clients were barely holding on and they said they had a ghost problem. And yet, not only had they insisted that they all take the time to settle in and relax, but they’d chosen to use the dining room during the dinner rush as the place to clue them into the events they’d experienced.

“Of course, I suppose it could be described as romantic,” Margaery declared, in what Asha could only describe as a carrying voice. “And really rather quite special to stay in an historic place with a bonafide ghost, but well, Robb and I,” she stopped and clasped her husband’s tanned hand. “Robb and I feel it is our duty as responsible hoteliers to confirm that there is absolutely no danger.”

Was it possibly an insurance scam of some sort? But when Asha thought about it, that didn’t quite fit.

The events they and their guests had witnessed were pretty garden-variety stuff, all easily explained away. Old pipes sometimes carried sound in weird ways. Properties of this age creaked and groaned due to natural causes. Guests drank and or lit up a little something and saw shit. And if that wasn’t enough evidence, and it killed Asha to concede this, Mel didn’t seem to be sensing anything. 

She wouldn’t commit, though. Sometimes activity only happened in a specific spot at a certain hour. And the more wine Robb poured for Melisandre and the more he smiled at her with his perfect teeth, all while he told her about an incident in 310, the more Melisandre seemed to be leaning toward this explanation. 

Sam had been rendered speechless by Margaery since meeting her. He was transfixed and she was taking full advantage.

Asha tucked into her free-range, corn-fed, hand-massaged steak and kidney pie with its flaky crust, and snorted as Margaery did everything but give Sam a hand job right there.

Only Davos was also utterly unconvinced. But as he’d told Asha as they’d walked down to dinner, “They paid a non-refundable deposit and I made sure it was more than usual. We won’t lose money on this one.”

“Oh, we forgot to tell you one more thing about the history. Robb, honey, more wine for everyone.” Margaery paused while the waiter set desserts out in front of them. 

“You’re in for a treat,” Robb told them. “This is Margaery’s favorite: blackberry pie.”

Sam made a strangled sound.

“What’s wrong?” Margaery asked.

Sam barely got the words out. “Cooked fruit.”

Asha permitted herself a small smile. It wasn’t exactly a phobia of Sam’s, but he loathed jams, jellies, marmalades, and anything made with any kind of cooked fruit. 

“Oh, let me get you something else.” Margaery started to signal to the waiter.

And then he found courage. “I eat it once or twice a year.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sure this will be fine.”

Margaery beamed and waited for him to swallow a few bites, before she returned back to the topic at hand. “We were doing research on the strange things that have been happening and you’ll never guess what we found.”

It was just a job, Asha told herself. 

Margaery’s eyes were as big as saucers. “Have you ever heard of the Red Wedding?”

* * *

Margaery handed the couple from 201 a copy of their invoice. The card with the information about TripAdvisor was stapled to the receipt.

“We’ll be back,” the wife promised. “You have a gem of a hotel. The charm, the atmosphere, the service—you made our anniversary very memorable.”

“Oh, I am so happy. Do consider following us on Twitter.” 

They were scarcely out the door when Robb came storming in. He slapped a book on the counter with such force that it shook. 

“I am not going back there. Ever. I don’t care if we have to drive five hundred miles. We pay them and then we’re done with Bolton Dry Cleaners forever.”

“Robb, people will hear.” Her eyes fell on the book. “ _A History of Torture_. What the . . .?”

“I just spent the past twenty minutes listening to that pervert talking about flaying people alive. He kept dropping things on purpose. Early arthritis pains, my ass.”

“Robb—”

“Don’t. I am not a gigolo. I’m not going back there. I won’t. I can’t.” His eyes were wild.

Margaery guided him to the back office. “Robb, baby. Shhhh, you don’t have to. Oh, honey, I am so sorry. We’ll find another dry cleaner. I’ll take care of it.”

“This is so much harder than we thought it would be. Margaery, I’m so tired. This ghost business. They’ve been here two nights and they haven’t . . . I don’t know . . . maybe we should sell up.”

“No.” Margaery had never experienced failure and she was not about to do so now. “Robb, I need you to look at me. We are going to make a success of this. I just need you to talk with Melisandre like we planned. By tomorrow, it will all be resolved.”

“How can you know that?”

Margaery twined her arms around him. She had known since the first day she met him that she would have to be the strong one. She didn’t mind. “Baby, I just do.”

* * *

Sam yawned.

“This is a fucking waste of time,” Asha snapped. “This place is about as haunted as the inside of my car. You know I’m right. We’ve taken photographs of everything. We’ve videotaped every inch of this floor. We’ve run EVP. We’ve run regular audio. We’ve invited the spirits. Mel has invoked them. She’s practically begged them to come down and possess her. There is nothing here.”

“Asha,” Davos began.

“I know, I know. We have their money and you don’t care. Fuck this. I’m tired. I miss my bed. I hate this stupid hotel. I want to be back in King’s Landing with Qarl eating—”

Davos held up a hand. “I’ve asked you before, Asha. I don’t need to know about your sex life.”

“At least I have one. Or had one until he—fuck!”

Sam watched as Melisandre and Davos exchanged glances. He knew Asha was frustrated. They were all frustrated. 

“The spirits will not appear with this kind of negativity,” Melisandre complained.

Sam could think of any number of cases where spirits had reportedly manifested in the face of more rampant skepticism, but he was as tired and as irritable as Asha. When Davos told them to both turn in, his only reaction was relief.

The room formerly known as 312 was separated from the other rooms the team members were in, by a small sitting area and the stairwell. He didn’t mind so much. Ordinarily, he liked his coworkers, but in the past few days, he was feeling the need for some alone time. This case had them all out of sorts. Davos was checked out mentally. Melisandre didn’t like what they weren’t finding. And Asha had taken an instant dislike to the clients and was doing a poor job of concealing it.

Sam got into his pajamas, cracked a window, and climbed into the bed. He was bone tired and yawning. He was just drifting off when a sound woke him.

“Not my son. He’s my only son.”

Sam blinked himself awake. 

“He’s my only son.”

There was an eerie glow at the end of the room and a figure stood before him. Sam groped for his glasses, half afraid to put them on, but he had to. He had to for science. 

They had turned off the cameras in here when closer interrogation of the maid had revealed she hadn’t, in fact, ever seen anything at all in this room and when every single test had come back negative. No one from the team would know anything was happening in here.

The figure was definitely female and it was clad in white. That was all he could see. He pressed the button the lamp in vain. It would not turn on. “Who are you?”

“Please. He is my son, my first son. Let him go and I swear we will forget this. I swear it, by the old gods and new, we will take no vengeance.”

“You’re dead,” Sam managed. “You’ve been dead for hundreds of years.”

“Please, I’ll do anything if you’ll only let him go.”

He was half horrified, half fascinated to see the figure crawling up onto the bed on all fours. 

“Let me please you.”

He should really move. He should scream. Oh, gods, she was bending over and she was pulling the sheet down. Her hands were icy as they expertly worked his cock out of the opening of his pajamas. Sam found himself wishing he had not chosen to wear the pair patterned with tiny Darth Vaders. As the figure bent over him, apparently intent on making the ultimate sacrifice for her son, the rational part of his brain kicked on. 

“Margaery?”

“Shhhh.”

“Catelyn Stark would not have been wearing white and she would have been a lot older than you.” The TV show. She’d seen the old TV show. ”The adaptation wasn’t very faithful.” 

“I will do this if you will spare my son.”

“I can see the zipper on your gown, Margaery. Zippers are less than a hundred years old. And the fabric is a poly-blend.”

Margaery Tyrell Stark sat up. “Shit.”

Sam’s erection wasn’t deflating, but he was too fascinated to care. “Why do you want us to think your hotel is haunted?”

She considered him, twisting her lips as she did so. “Because there are a lot of people who would love the idea of staying at a haunted hotel and because if we don’t bring more guests in, we’re ruined.” From under her gown, she produced an ice pack which she tossed onto the floor.

“So you thought you would hire paranormal experts and let it be known that there was a ghost.”

“A harmless historic ghost, to go with the setting.” Margaery pushed up the sleeves of the dress. “I wouldn’t have needed to do anything if we could have landed more corporate business, but this place is too far away from the airport. Once they put the highway in a hundred miles away forty years ago, that was it for The Crossing. That’s what really killed it.”

It should have been awkward, his erection. But Margaery wasn’t paying any attention to it. 

“So you were going to perform oral sex on me to get me to . . .”

“Robb and I are very open about that sort of thing.” Margaery focused back on him. “I thought . . . I’m surprised you stopped me.”

She thought he was the most likely mark. Sam felt it starting to retreat and then to his surprise, Margaery had her fingers around his cock. “Uh.”

“I don’t mind. You’re so sweet and honorable and you’re kind of cute, you know. Or you would be, if you shaved your neck and got a proper haircut.”

“I’m fat,” he mumbled.

Margaery shrugged even as she stroked. 

His breath was coming faster. “You’re married.”

“I told you, we have an open relationship. Robb won’t mind. He’s with his latest right now. This will have to be quick. I promised I’d join them after.”

It was like a letter to _Penthouse_. “You don’t have to.”

“But now I want to.”

For the next seven-to-ten minutes, even as she brought him closer to ecstasy than he’d ever been, she talked. And if Sam couldn’t manage to breathe, let alone answer back, Margaery didn’t seem to mind. She had things she wanted to say and she would pause in her efforts periodically long enough to make sure he was listening. 

“I enjoyed that,” Margaery told him brightly when it was over. She reached for the box of tissues on the night stand and cleaned off her fingers. “Remember what I said about the neckbeard and the haircut.” She cocked her head. “Green would be a nice color on you.”

“All . . . all right.” He fell back against the pillow and tried to remember how to breathe.

Margaery gave his knee a squeeze and smiled at him. “I have to go. Thanks for being so understanding.”

* * *

Melisandre had just ended a highly satisfactory phone call with Lancel when there was a knock at her door.

“It’s Sam.”

If ever there was a mood killer, it would be Sam, but he persisted until finally she threw a robe on and opened the door. 

“We need to talk.”

Melisandre let him in. Her annoyance faded to interest as he began to relate what she thought might be an edited account of his evening. 

“What do you think?” he asked when he had finished detailing Margaery’s proposal. “Should we wake up Davos?”

If they woke up Davos, he would make them pack up and leave. Melisandre thought. For a man with a slightly dubious past, he was an honorable man. She respected that, but this opportunity was too good to pass up. It was a matter of the greater good.

* * *

Davos really did not understand why the clients were so giddy.

“Here’s the balance we owe you,” Robb told him. “It’s certified.”

“Thank you.” He glanced at Asha, who seemed to be just as mystified. 

Melisandre tugged gently on his elbow. “Would you mind driving back to the airport with Asha? I want some time to talk with Sam.”

This was new, Davos thought. Melisandre tolerated the young man’s company, but she did not like spending lengthy amounts of time with him. “Sure,” he said. It also meant he would need to let Asha drive, but Mel seemed to think it was important so he agreed. 

As they packed up, Margaery shook them both warmly by the hand and thanked them again.

“I don’t get it,” Asha commented as they cleared the gate. “I’ve tried to figure it out and I just do not get it.” She leaned on her horn as a TV van cut across too closely. “Assholes!”

They had driven only a few feet before they turned and looked back at the news van.

“She wouldn’t have,” Davos said. And what could Melisandre even say? They hadn’t found one blessed thing.

“Maybe they contacted the TV news? The clients?”

It wasn’t until a few hours later when they stopped off at a pub in order to grab a bite that they learned the truth.

A clean-shaven Sam faced the camera and nervously described his paranormal experience. He spoke of a ghostly, deeply saddened woman in white. Then the reporter turned the camera on Melisandre who spoke vaguely and mysteriously about auras and spirits caught in an endless temporal causality loop.

Asha was slack-jawed. “She took that from _Star Trek_ ,” she managed. 

The highly photogenic Robb and Margaery faced the camera. Robb smiled nervously while Margaery glibly proclaimed how relieved they were to have closure. And then, very brightly, she went on to say how romantic she found the whole thing. Their guests were excited, she said. 

“Who wouldn’t be? I mean, to stay in a restored historic hotel with beautiful grounds and fun activities for a very reasonable rate? And with a ghost to boot! Thank goodness for the investigators at Crownlands Paranormal Investigations!”

* * *

_To:_ dseaworth@cpi.com   
From: stannis.baratheon@gmail.com   
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Discontinuation of your services

_Dear Mr. Seaworth:_

_The incidents have recurred and they have worsened. I apologize for my indecisiveness. This is so unusual a matter that I have been unsure how to proceed. But after making discreet inquiries, I have been assured of the integrity of your business. Consider this a definite request for your services. I shall not change my mind again._

_As previously discussed, I will deposit the agreed-upon sum in your company account by close of business._

_Attached please find an incident log. If you have questions, I can be reached at the number below._

_Regards,_

_Stannis Baratheon_

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I owe a huge thank you to [Vana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vana/pseuds/Vana) and [tafkar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tafkar/pseuds/tafkar) who kindly beta read this for me!
> 
> Also thanks to the people in the j/b chat who helped with menu descriptions and Sam's pajamas.


End file.
